


you don't know my mind

by shirogiku



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Addiction, Dominoes, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rook just likes locking 'em up, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One has to take advantage of having Hal Yorke under lock and key.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't know my mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).



> Disclaimer: _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.
> 
> As always, largely inspired by Shaitanah's meta and fics. Only barely pretends to fit into the series continuity.
> 
> Edited: 28-07-2016.

“Hal.” Rook studies him carefully through the bars. “You are keeping well, I trust?”

 

He is sitting cross-legged on the discoloured mat, his hands on his knees, his skin sallow in the light. He has been _dusting_ the old thing. One would almost apologise for the terrible accommodations - blaming it all on the chokehold budget, of course.

 

Finally, he opens one eye just a crack, continuing with the silent treatment.

 

“You ought to talk to me, Hal,” Rook prompts. “I ought to be noting down even the slightest changes in your condition.”

 

“And there I thought this wasn’t an experiment,” Hal retorts, a hint of accusation creeping into his tone.

 

Rook steps a little closer. ”A progress is only a progress when it can be measured.”

 

“ _Progress_ ,” Hal repeats slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue.

 

“Your hands aren’t shaking,” Rook points out. “ _And_ you are in full control of your faculties.” He speaks with more confidence than he has any reasonable grounds for. “I would call that a tentative progress, yes.” 

 

Because the truth is, they were running out of time before they even began. But this one project, Rook isn’t prepared to scrap so easily. It would be a colossal waste.

 

Hal gets up abruptly, breaking Rook's reverie, and the urge to draw back is nearly overpowering.

 

“Don’t you understand? It comes and goes, from better to worse, and round and round and round! I have infinitely less control over it than you over your little,” he sneers, “ _budgets_.”

 

“Missing your little routines, are you?”

 

They also come and go, depending on Hal's behaviour, which has mostly been bad. Rook has a very low tolerance of increasingly more obscure insults directed at his own person.

 

But progress always demands certain concessions. “Would you like your dominoes back, then? And we shall pretend that long and sordid description of what you would like to do to me against the nearest wall never happened.“

 

“That would be… much appreciated.”

 

He inspects them with a mechanical precision and the tenderness of a lover. Not that Rook would know much about such things. The spiral begins to grow.

 

Rook's stopwatch measures the time until the inevitable fall - a predisposition for drama is practically built into those sharp teeth. Hal removes a piece from the main formation and closes his fist around it. Something must set it apart from the rest. Rook himself isn’t a sentimental man by nature: his legacy is all about professionalism.

 

Hal looks up. “Planning to keep me here forever, are we? Pass me down as some office heilroom stapler?”

 

Now that would be a novel use of an Old One. “Why, would you like me to?”

 

A shadow passes over Hal’s face, blink and you’ve missed it. The fine hairs on the nape of Rook’s neck are standing on end.

 

Hal's silence, Rook's stopwatch. Coping strategies. Vampires always lose any finer appreciation of time. They drink it up voraciously, without any restraint, and then they wonder what has gone wrong. Hal is no different: he times his routines but not his existence as a whole.

 

Hal rests his forehead against the bars. “What _do_ you want from me, Dominic?”

 

For you to stop using my first name without my explicit permission, he thinks. For starters. “Need I remind you, it was _you_ who came to _me_? _You_ asked to be locked away because you are a threat to your friends. Or have your priorities changed in my custody? No, I can see that they have not. So here we are, then.”

 

Hal’s mouth twists into a mocking curve. “Others – far, far better men and women than you – have tried and failed to rehabilitate me. What makes you think you could possibly succeed where so many have failed?”

 

Rook smiles. “Oh, but that's not _my_ job.” Hal knits his brow in confusion. “I but provide the facilities.” With these words, Rook is building up a spiral of his own: “No more crutches, Hal. No more helpers or handholding. Just you and your hunger. Contain it, tame it, or be consumed by it!”

 

“You don’t know what you ask of me!”

 

“Yes, I do, you stubborn, conceited eternal manchild! The more you hold back, the worse it gets - it's a universal principle, which you aren’t exempt from. _One_ flask per day, Hal, just one, acquired consensually, and your never-ending struggles can be over.”

 

Hal drawls, “And you would know all about never-ending struggles, wouldn’t you?”

 

Offer them an olive branch, and they will slap you in the face with it. “This will get you nowhere, as usual.”

 

Hal laughs. “ _Au contraire_ , Dominic. Your temper tantrums are always so _delectable_.” He arranges himself into an incogrously sinuous line. “And I’m beginning to think you actually enjoy them.”

 

“As I said, you are an insufferable-”

 

“Oh hush.” Hal presses his finger to Rook’s lips, for all the distance that should have been there between them. It pushes its way into Rook’s mouth, prodding at his teeth. “You are my jailor - so if anyone is responsible for releasing me into the world now, it's you.”

 

Rook darts back, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. “You might consider showering before trying to make an impression.”

 

He leaves without another word, to wash his mouth and tongue and hands obsessively until they are ready to be stained again.

 

He will return tomorrow.


End file.
